


All Are Tales of Love At Heart

by babs



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: M/M, Post-Season/Series 10 Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:07:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24756760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babs/pseuds/babs
Summary: Story-telling is a gift from the past.
Relationships: Daniel Jackson/Jack O'Neill
Comments: 6
Kudos: 57





	All Are Tales of Love At Heart

"Where did all this come from?" Jack asks as soon as he enters our apartment.

I take a look around and realize that it looks like a filing cabinet threw up all over the sofa, Jack's recliner, the floor, and the coffee table. 

"It came in the mail," I say and start putting the papers into a semblance of order. 

"Okay," Jack says, but he draws it out as if he doesn't believe me, and sure enough he continues. "I know we get junk mail, but you gotta admit, they've gone a bit overboard."

I look up at him finally and shake my head, my hands gripping the stack of paper I hold tightly. "No. Not junk. Someone at the university found a box of some of my parents' research and thought I'd like them."

Jack sits down beside me—on the small spot I've managed to clear. "How did they find you? How did they remember you?"

"There's a scholarship given in my parents' names each year—I'm the person who gets the final say as to the recipient." 

Jack raises his eyebrows. "How did I not know this?"

"Did you have a need to know it?" I say and then shrug. "I'll get this cleaned up."

"Are you done sorting it?" Jack, surprisingly, has not disturbed any of the papers as if he senses their importance to me.

"Not yet." I sigh. "I shouldn't have gotten it all out right now. There's a mission tomorrow and this is going to take weeks to getlo through. I just..." How do I explain that I'd felt an overwheming need to connect with my long dead parents? I've outlived them both by ten years, but lately...I still have this wish to be able to see them and talk to them and tell them who I am now. 

"Charlie's ball cap," Jack says and I know he understands. He holds up the bag of takeout. "I'll get things set up. You can let it out if you want."

"No." I begin to put the papers back in the box they'd come in. At least I managed to sort them based on the research done. A picture flutters out as I move one of the stacks to the box and I put it on the arm of the chair to look at it later.

The papers are stuffed back in the box and I grab the picture on my way to the table where Jack has a variety of take out containers opened.

"Walnut chicken, hot and sour soup, Lee's special fried rice, spring rolls, some of that Ma Po tofu you actually eat, and salt and pepper shrimp." He reels off the dishes as if he's a waiter at the restaurant. 

"Thanks," I say and pull the hot and sour soup container closer as Jack sighs and hands me a spoon.

I nod my thanks and glance at the picture—the back has my dad's handwriting on it—strange that I can recognize it after all these years. "Danny Jackson, Mel Jackson." The date is smeared but I can make out the year and realize I was 6—well almost six—when it was taken. Dealing with artifacts for a living, putting together the puzzles of who and what and when rubs off on a person. Labeling our own journals and letters and photos for future generations is automatic. I turn the photo over, the soup forgotten but for it smearing my glasses with steam.

I remember this—the winter that Mom was teaching a Saturday course and Dad and I would go for breakfast at a diner and then go on what he called our weekly adventure. 

We'd get waffles that Dad would let me smother in syrup and he'd smile and tell me not to tell Mom that he'd let me eat the leftover syrup with a spoon. And then we'd drive—usually to the beach where we'd walk along the shore and I'd pick up pieces of shells and rocks and we'd watch for whales even though Dad would remind me that they'd migrated south for the winter. 

He must have had someone take this picture for us. I'm standing on a small rock, leaning into his side. We're bundled in our winter jackets and Dad has his arm around me, holding me steady, so I don't fall. There's a rucksack on the rock at my feet and I know what's in that battered pack. We're both smiling and I can imagine Dad taking back his camera and saying a polite thank you to the passerby he'd asked to take our photo.

We'd walk on the beach and then Dad would say, Time for a break, Danny and we'd find a piece of driftwood and he'd reach into the rucksack and pull out a thermos filled with hot chocolate. He'd even pull out a pack of marshmallows and put two in the lid—the kind that served as a cup—and pour the chocolate in. 

"Be careful. It's hot," he'd say every time and every time, I'd tell him I was six—well nearly six—even if my birthday was seven months away—and I was big enough to remember it was hot.

He'd laugh and drink out of the thermos and I'd snuggle up to his side and he'd tell me stories. The stories of the Egyptian gods and goddesses, Norse mythology, Roman, Greek, Hindu—it didn't matter what. He transported me to those places and the names became part of my vocabulary. Thor, Isis, Osiris, Ra—they were real to me even before I knew the truth of the Goa'uld. We'd practice languages—Arabic, Greek, Latin. And when the chocolate was gone and we'd walked out slow pace back to the car, I'd nap on the way home and go in the house ready to tell Mom all about our adventure.

"Daniel? Daniel!"

I come back to the present and look up to see Jack watching me with concern.

"You okay?"

"Fine," I tell him. I show him the photo. "Dad and me."

"You were a million miles away," he says, a piece of walnut chicken in his chopsticks.

"Yeah," I say. "Remembering. I don't—didn't--have any pictures of me and Dad." I get up to put the photo on the counter and then I start eating my soup. 

We finish the meal in silence although there are leftovers which I suppose will sustain Jack while I'm off-world. Jack waves me off to the living room and I grab the photo again and put it on the coffee table while I start unloading the stacks of paper once more.

This time I'm a little bit neater and have them on the coffee table criss-crossed in a large pile. 

Jack joins me, sitting by my side, his thigh touching mine. "You have any idea what you're gonna do with all this?"

I look at him and for a brief moment I fear that he's going to want all these papers gone.

It must reflect on my face because he smiles—that gentle soft smile that I'm the only person privileged to see and shakes his head. "I just wanted to know if we need a new filing cabinet or you're going to take them into your office at work."

"I'm not sure. Some of it's research but new discoveries have rendered it obsolete. So probably not of much use to me at work." I sigh. "I'm gonna have to read through a lot of it. I've only given most of it a cursory glance." 

"Personal stuff?"

I glance at the papers. "Some. Not much." Not nearly enough I want to say. I force a smile. "My parents weren't famous or anything." I give a small little laugh which hurts more than it should. "They're recognized more for the way they died than any of their research."

"They did have you," Jack says.

"Yeah. And we all know how well my name is received in the archaeology world." I'm feeling way more bitter than I should—those happy memories I'd felt while looking at the picture of me and my dad quickly dissolving. 

"Can I see it?" Jack asks, his hand hovering near the photo which is face down.

"Go ahead." I get up to grab a stack of post-it notes and a pen to start labeling the piles. I'm going to have to buy some file folders because I'm pretty sure we don't have any extra.

I sit down and start my task and then look up to see Jack with a confused look on his face.

"What?" I say. "You can't believe I was ever a kid?"

Jack shakes his head. "No, but this is...you're at the beach."

I put down the pen after placing another note on a stack and putting it back in the big box.

"And?"

"You and your dad are wearing winter jackets." Jack looks at me. "I didn't think it got that cold in Egypt. I know it doesn't get that cold."

"It's not Egypt," I tell him. "Oregon. The winter I was six. Well-almost six."

"Your birthday is in July." Jack looks at me. "It is in July isn't it? You haven't lied about that or anything have you?"

"Yes, Jack," I say. "I managed to forge a birth certificate and trick everyone for my whole life." I shake my head. "I was a kid. I wanted to be older than I was."

Jack grins at that. "Yeah. Strange how that feeling goes away the older you get."

I smile back. "Mom was teaching a Saturday class that semester, so Saturdays were a special day for me and dad."

"In Oregon." Jack says it really slowly as if he can't quite form the words.

"Yes. In Oregon—where I spent the first sixteen years of my life."

"But..." Jack looks at the picture, then at me, then back at the picture. "You grew up in the desert, in Egypt. With your parents who were archaeologists, Egyptologists."

I shake my head. "No. I'm pretty sure I know the difference between Egypt and Oregon." I keep looking at him, waiting.

"You grew up in Oregon."

"Yep. And yes my parents were archaeologists, but they were also professors. Doctors Melbourne and Claire Jackson. They taught and did research."

"In Egypt." Jack insists.

And I realize the disconnect. "Archaeologists, well most of them at least, don't dig all year long. I was in Egypt a grand total of three times before I was an adult and one of those I don't remember at all because I was only two."

"So..."

"We'd go over winter break and my parents would be teaching even then as it was field experience for their students."

Jack looks at me as if I'm someone he never knew. "How did I not know this?"

I shrug. "It never came up."

"You know about my childhood," he says, his voice accusing.

"Yes, because you talk about yours." I turn back to the stacks on the table, angry for a reason I can't even name.

I hear him open his mouth and then the click as he closes it again. I sigh, push up my glasses and turn to him once more.

"Look, I grew up in a college town, my dad taught me to love mythology and languages, my mom taught me the sheer wonder of discovering the past. I watched them die in the accident not because they had anything to do with the discovery of the temple but because it just so happened that one of the big donors at the New York Musuem of Art was an alumnus of the university where they taught and the powers that be thought having two archaeologists from said university as curators for the exhibit would be good for even more donations. Mom and Dad did the prep work for it. We'd been in New York for months and I was mad because I wasn't at my regular school." I realize my hands are curled into fists on my knees as I run out of breath.

"I'm sorry," Jack says and I know it's not an apology for anything he's done, but for fate.

I lean forward, let my head drop against his shoulder and sigh into it, feeling his arms come around me.

"Still waters sure do run deep," he says after a few long moments and the sheer Jack-ness of it makes me start to laugh.

I pull away and I take the photo from him, tracing my finger over my dad's smile.

"I'm older than him," I say and then I put the photo down on the table. I pick up the post-it notes again and go back to my labeling. Jack says nothing but pulls the box closer and puts each stack in as I place the label. 

I finish and stretch from my hunched over position and Jack leans in, placing a kiss on my neck.

"You are going on a mission tomorrow," he murmurs, his breath hot on my skin.

"Yeah," I say and feel a stirring in my groin. Words begin to desert me as his kiss turns to small nips and he moves lower and all I can do is surrender.

* * * *

We're in bed and Jack is slowly stroking my hair as I rest my head on his chest. 

"So, Oregon," he says, and I laugh just as he knew I would.

"Is that going to be a new code word or something?" I ask and I push up to look at him.

He's grinning and I can't help but grin back, but I'm tired in that boneless way I always am after sex with Jack and I put my head back down while he resumes his stroking.

I dream of the stories my dad told me—gods and goddesses, heroes and heroines, myth and reality combining in a strange dance while I stand looking up at them above me. I try to pull them close into my heart but they elude me and I wake up with a gasp and realize it's time to get up.

The goodbye kiss is done at home—not on base—and I look up from the Gateroom to see Jack standing there as he always does before turning to face the Gate. Sam bounces on her toes beside me, Mitchell is looking at the chevrons with the same awe he still retains after three years on SG-1, Vala is looking back at the control room and waving. I imagine Jack waving back with an amused smile of tolerance. Teal'c is on my other side, solid, strong, and I immediately feel protected by his presence.

I hear the kawoosh and nod as Teal'c says, "After you, Daniel Jackson."

"Thanks," I say and before I know it, the cold of the journey is replaced with heat, humidity, and the noise of a busy city. I cough at the smell of burning fuel.

"SG-1, welcome! Welcome to Riata!" Our host is a small rotund man who is beaming at our arrival. "Please, please, accept our gratitude for your presence."

"Glad to oblige," Mitchell says and nods at him. "Mister...?"

"I am Host Landon," the man says. "Colonel Mitchell? Colonel Carter?" He looks at each of us putting names to the faces he's only known through a camera. "Teal'c, Vala, and you are Doctor Jackson?" 

"Yes," I tell him and he beams at us.

"We have arranged transportation for your arrival at the City Center," he says and begins leading us away from the Gate.

"Jackson?" Mitchell says as we walk side by side.

I'm trying to listen to him, take in the sights of the people and buildings surrounding us, and keep track of Host Landon. "Yes?"

"Anything?"

"Um...technology equivalent to 1950s earth—well at least what we know of at least. But we already knew that stepping through."

"What's your read on Landon?"

Cameron seems to have this idea that I am the expert on anyone we meet—as if I have some sort of psychic ability to know if someone is an enemy or friend, good or bad. The fact that I prefer to think of most people I meet as trust-worthy until they prove me wrong tends to go right over his head.

"Friendly," I tell him. "But then again, I'm sure we'd be sure to put out a welcoming presence if they were visiting us."

He nods and waits to talk to Sam while I catch up to Teal'c.

"This world has much pollution," Teal'c says and makes a face.

"So not too different from Earth," I say and then cough as a vehicle belches a puff of green-ish gas.

Teal'c looks at me with concern and frowns. "The sky is gray and there is soot on your face."

I'd already noticed the particulates in the air as my glasses are smeared with a greasy film. "Yeah, there is that."

"All these people," Vala says. "Oh and look. We're in a shopping district."

I grab her arm before she can take off across the street. "No shopping."

"You're no fun, Daniel. He's no fun, Teal'c," she says and makes a pouting expression. 

I sigh while Teal'c simply raises an eyebrow to quell her. 

"Teal'c?"

"Yes, Daniel Jackson?" Teal'c says and ignores Vala's bouncing ahead to speak to Host Landon.

"Do you notice anything strange about the people?" I ask slowly as I continue to observe.

"No one appears to be interested in our presence," Teal'c says.

"I mean, the Stargate just opened," I say. 

"They did expect our arrival," Teal'c points out. 

I'm not feeling any sort of alarm by our un-noticed passage through the streets but it strikes me as very strange that no one seems to care—and then I notice it. Everyone except Landon is wearing some sort of earpiece similar to the bluetooth device one would see on Earth. No one is talking into it but all seemed to be tuned into something.

I file the information away for later and soon Host Landon is shepherding us into a large van. The seats are comfortable and even Teal'c has plenty of room for his legs. 

"We are excited about your visit," Host Landon says. "Yes, very excited. It's always a pleasure to meet new people, isn't it?"

"Very," Vala says and she continues to speak to Landon while I lean over to speak quietly to Sam and Cameron.

"Did you notice the..." I gesture to my own ear. "Everyone was wearing one."

"I saw that," Sam says and Cameron looks at her in surprise. 

"Perhaps a communication device?" Teal'c suggests.

"No one was talking," Cameron says. "Maybe listening?"

"To what?" Sam asks and looks at me.

I shrug my shoulders. "I have no idea."

We settle back into the seats and watch the passing scenery. The sidewalks are filled with people and the streets with vehicles—New York City on steroids. But I realize that except for the traffic noise, there had been no sounds of street hawkers, the buzz of people talking and calling out to one another.

"You getting a bad feeling, Jackson?" Cameron asks, his expression one of concern. "Because if we need to bug out..."

I shake my head. "No. Strangely not. Landry will check in in thirty six hours and they've not taken anything from us."

"I will guide us back to the Stargate if necessary," Teal'c assures us as he continues to look through the dirty window.

"We are here!" Host Landon announces as the van comes to a stop sometime later. "Our City Center."

We get out the van and look up at the imposing structure. It's built of white stone which is surprisingly clean—maybe they have people washing it all the time or maybe it's impervious to the pollution. 

There are ropes holding back crowds on either of the sides of our passage and I almost feel like we're on a red carpet despite there being none especially when there appear to be news reporters with this world's version of cameras and microphones. Not to mention the cheers that go up as we make our way to the large wooden doors that are slowly opening at our approach.

Vala smiles and waves while I hunch my shoulders and try to remain invisible while still being alert to my surroundings. I'm not comfortable with all the attention and I notice Cameron, Sam, and Teal'c have their hands resting lightly on their weapons. I suppose that's where my hands should be too but I'm busy trying to figure what is going on. 

We're being treated as honored guests or celebrities and while I remember missions where that sort of heralded welcome meant we were being led to sacrifice or danger, this time it feels different, even though I wouldn't be able to explain it to Cameron.

The doors close behind us and there is blessedly cool and more importantly, clean air. There are more of the reporters though and Host Landon is leading us through the crowd of them. 

I hear someone say something about the Game and my stomach does a little flip flop. I look around trying to see if there are any clues.

"Game?" Mitchell asks me as we're led into another large hall and onto what I can only think of as a stage.

I shake my head. "I don't know. It doesn't look like it could be that bad."

He stops walking and stares at me. 

"Well I mean, nothing like being fed to lions or wild animals." I gesture at the room we're in. "This looks more like a theater than an arena."

He looks around and then gives a short nod before gesturing for me to do my thing.

"Host Landon," I say and he turns around with a broad smile.

"Yes, Doctor Daniel Jackson?"

"I heard one of the...uh...reporters mention The Game," I begin before he interrupts me.

"Oh yes. Yes. We are so pleased you have come to participate."

"Hold up," Mitchell says. "What game? We haven't agreed to participate in anything."

Landon's expression falters for a second before he brightens again. "That is why you have come to us. To entertain us."

Mitchell's hand tightens on his weapon and I step between him and Landon without really thinking about it. 

"Perhaps you could explain the Game to us," I say, holding my hands away from my sides. "We may want to..."

"Jackson," I hear Cameron say behind me.

I swear they somehow teach that tone in the military. Jack used to sound the same way.

"The Game. The entertainment." Landon keeps a cautious eye on Mitchell as he gestures towards the seats in the auditorium. "To tell the stories."

"The stories," I repeat.

"Your stories. The stories of your people."

"You said it's a game," Sam pipes up. "How is telling stories a game?"

"You will see," Host Landon says and suddenly we are held in place by beams of light.

He smiles at us. "Now you will choose."

"Choose what?" Mitchell's voice is strained even though the beams don't affect our breathing or even cause pain. We just can't move.

"Who shall be the storyteller and play for freedom and life," Host Landon says. 

Bright lights come up and nearly blind me. I can no longer see the seats in the theater but there is swelling music and I can hear excited voices as the theater fills with the people I think are our audience.

"Welcome to The Game!" Host Landon says and there is the sound of loud applause.  
"Our storyteller will be..." he pauses and looks at us.

"Mitchell," I say. "It has to be me." 

"I know," he says. "Do it." He looks at me through the beam and suddenly my beam is gone and I can move again. I force myself to not take a step towards the others but I look at each of them, making sure they are okay.

"Doctor Daniel Jackson!" Landon says and the audience applauds again. He approaches me and and gives me a clap on the shoulder. "We are so glad you have agreed to play for the lives and freedom of your friends. We'll go over the rules of the Game for anyone who isn't familiar with them." There's a loud long laugh from the crowd as if this is an expected speech and the only person who doesnt know the rules is me.

"You will begin to share the stories when the bell rings. As the stories are told, the audience will vote on their value." He points to a set of lights above each beam. "Stories with value will increase the freedom of your companions, those with little will decrease it. The Game will continue until all are freed whether through story or beam. Are there any questions?"

"Through story or beam? What does that mean?"

"Show Doctor Daniel Jackson the beam," Host Landon says and waves at someone above us.

The beam around Sam narrows and I see her gasping for breath, in pain. Just as suddenly the beam widens again and she straightens and nods at me.

"Covers," Host Landon claps and metal cylinders come down to hide the beams, my teammates from my view.

"Any other questions?"

"What stories? How do I know..." I trail off as Host Landon points to a timer. 

"You will know by what pleases them," he says and suddenly I'm alone on the stage and my brain goes blank for a few moments.

The lights above my friends' cylinders blink red and I remember Sam gasping for breath.

Osiris, Isis...it's the first myth to come into my brain. And I begin.

"On my world, there is a country called Egypt and once many thousands of years ago, there was a god named Osiris. He ruled over them and brought them laws and farming and was a good and just ruler..."

So what that Osiris was a Goa'uld. I go back into my childhood to those days with Dad when he would tell me the myths of ancient Egypt. I try to pull up the magic of those days—those stories that sent me to sleep and comforted me in the days after my parents' deaths. 

I lose track of time. The lights brighten and dim and I feel the pressure as none of them quite brighten enough. The audience changes every so often and I begin to pace as I talk. At one point, they bring me water when my throat grows dry. I tell every myth I know and still the lights flicker from bright to dim and back again.

I think of giving a lecture that I use at the SGC but discard it. I'm sure that would bore them all and the lights would grow dimmer and dimmer and my friends will die.

Die—I can't let them die. I move onto Greek mythology and then Scandinavian. I tell fairy tales and ignore the way my legs tremble and my stomach growls and still I talk.

More water is brought out and this time Host Landon brings it himself.

"Stories of real people, personal stories are being requested,' Host Landon says and the audience I can't see applauds. 

I nod even though I feel as though I'm going to fall over. My throat hurts despite the water and I want nothing more than to sit down. I start to pace again gathering my increasingly scattered thoughts. I think of my friends that I can't see and start with Vala.

"There was a little girl named Vala Mal Doran who was sold to a man as a servant..." As I progress into the story, I notice one of the beams growing brighter and brighter and finally it glows a steady green. The metal cylinder stays in place and I worry that maybe it's too late. Or maybe I just haven't done enough.

I tell Cameron's story—as much as I know of it at least, focus on his request to be on SG-1 and how no one had told him we were all scattered to the winds. That part of the story brings laughter and finally his light glows steady too.

Sam is next and hers and Teal'c's will be easiest, I think. I hear gasps when I move onto Teal'c's and I focus on the sacrifice he made for us—the sheer bravery of leaving everything he knew behind all because of Jack's asking him to. Their lights are steady now too and I look over at Host Landon who is smiling. I want to wipe that smile off his face because I don't know why my friends are still being held prisoner.

I think of my own story, entwined with theirs, but make a decision that I hope is the right one. The story that I believe will move them most, the character mentioned before.

"On a planet called Abydos, a girl was born to Kasuf, the headman of Nagada and his wife, Ahura who died a few days later. They named her Sha're."

After all these years, her name still brings a catch to my voice. My beautiful Sha're, strong and courageous. I tell stories of her childhood—ones Kasuf shared with me and I tell the story of our meeting and our marriage. I tell of the child we made together, the one we lost—born too early to survive. I remember the weight, featherlight in my hands as I placed her in the small box Skaara had made and the flowers Sha're and I placed in around her, the small rattle. My voice falters and I look at the cylinders hiding my friends and am renewed.

I tell of her capture, her possession, of the birth of Shifu, and of her death at Teal'c's hands. Of her final last defiance of her fate, giving me the gift of a dream—something of the host surviving indeed. And then finally of her burial on Abydos—her soul lighter than the feather, pure, holy, sinless. 

The audience is silent when I finish her story and I swear I can hear some sniffling and then there is a roar of applause that goes on and on. 

I hear a noise and look over through bleary eyes to see the cylinders rising and my friends coming out shaking their heads as if they were asleep. Maybe they were. I don't know. I just know where I want to be is anywhere but here, and I hope that Mitchell isn't too disappointed that I failed them by not reading the situation correctly.

Host Landon is beside us and the lights come up again. 

"Home," I hear Mitchell say. "We are going home."

"But the festival," Host Landon says.

"We're going home," Mitchell repeats and looks at me with an expression I can't identify.

"Please accept this," Landon says and presses something into Sam's hands. It looks like an old-fashioned film reel. " A memory of The Game."

Personally I don't think I want any memories of our visit here, but my brain doesn't seem to be capable of much more than moving my feet. I follow Mitchell, Vala, and Sam and let Teal'c guide me because I don't think I can think any more.

We're back in the van and soon we're at the Stargate and stepping through to home and I...I...the floor looks very comfortable.

* * * *

Wherever I am, I'm comfortable. My throat still hurts but there's a pillow under my head and a blanket covering me. I turn my head and see Jack sitting by my side.

"Jack," I try to say it but nothing comes out when I form the name. I try again but there's no sound, just breath.

He looks up from the papers he's studying and smiles. "Welcome back." 

I motion towards the water I see sitting on the bedside table and he hands it to me. I drink it slowly and notice there's an IV in my arm. But even with the water, when I try to speak again, there's no sound.

I must look alarmed because Jack takes the glass, covers my hand and looks into my eyes. 

"You're gonna be okay. Just strained your vocal cords and are exhausted."

I glance at the IV and he understands. 

"You were dehydrated and your blood sugar was pretty low."

Another thought occurs to me and I'm not quite sure what's real. I turn my head to look at the other beds. They're all empty.

"Mitchell and the others are okay. Not a scratch." Jack strokes his thumb on the back of my hand rubbing a small circle. "Go back to sleep. You're still tired."

I'm not, I want to say, even though I can feel the lure of sleep pulling me back. So with Jack's low voice lulling me, I let myself surrender again.

* * * *

When I wake again, Mitchell is sitting by me. 

I frown and try to talk but it's no use. My voice has deserted me. Sorry, I mouth.

"Fraiser says you'll be going home later today," he says. "They gave us a highlight reel." He uses his fingers to make air quotes. "You talked for twenty six hours straight." He shakes his head.

I raise my eyebrows. You? I mouth.

"Those beams put us to sleep or in stasis or something. Sam's still trying to figure it out. We didn't hear or feel a thing until your final story. About Sha're."

I close my eyes, anger building. I'd been played a fool—all for their entertainment. I don't want to think about it. 

"Get some rest," Mitchell says and then pats my shoulder. "You did a good job, Daniel. Only one of us that could have pulled it off."

He leaves and I turn my head into the pillow and let tears fall. I tell myself it's relief or maybe exhaustion but I know I'm just lying.

* * * *

I go into the apartment, slow, my body aching from my participation as a game contestant. Sam gave me a hug before I left the mountain with Jack and Teal'c patted my shoulder very gently. Vala took my hand and looked into my eyes and simply said thank you. I couldn't respond to them—Janet says the laryngitis will go away in a week or so although it'll take a bit longer than that for my voice to be back full force.

Jack was strangely quiet on the drive home and he stopped at an office supply store while I drowsed in the car. He handed me the bag and said, "Don't say I never buy you presents."

I opened it to find a small white board and a bunch of dry erase markers.

I sigh—silently of course, and sink down onto the sofa.

"You want something to drink?" he asks.

I grab the board and write coffee in a big letters. 

"You know what Janet said," he reminds me and I don't need the board to let him know what I think about that.

When I get up to start making the coffee on my own, he puts a hand on my shoulder and heads to the kitchen.

I lean my head back on the cushions and close my eyes. Soon the glorious smell of coffee fills the air and I perk up a bit when Jack hands me a mug.

I wrap my hands around it, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. 

I hold it up in salute and we drink and then I see the framed photo on the bookshelf. I put the coffee mug down and walk over to it.

It's the picture of Dad and me, in a wood frame, Father and Son it says and I pick it up with fingers that slightly tremble. There's a small wooden filing cabinet that wasn't in the apartment before I left too—and I open the top drawer and see all the files I'd labeled neatly organized.

I turn back to Jack, the framed photo still in my hands and to my horror, I feel tears forming in my eyes.

After the fear that I would be responsible for the deaths of my teammates, after the realization that SG-1 had been nothing more than entertainment for the people of P4Y-222, after knowing that I'd poured out my heart to people who didn't know us, know me, the simple gesture of Jack caring enough to frame a small photo and put files in a filing cabinet fills me with an overwhelming sense of love and belonging.

"Ah, Danny," Jack says as he stands beside me. He takes the photo out of my hands and places it reverently on the shelf—right beside the photo of him and Charlie. 

He pulls me close and places a kiss on my forehead. I wrap my arms around him, my mouth seeking his. My voice might be gone but kissing still works.

I love you, I mouth against his lips. I love you. 

A small sound of contentment comes from him and I relax into Jack. I realize he'd been in all the stories I'd told—the one constant and I hold him tighter. Our story will continue and endure, just like all those myths Dad taught me all those years ago.


End file.
